


Missing Scenes from "At Seventeen"

by archipelago



Series: At Seventeen 'verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: At Seventeen, Friendship, Gen, Growing Up, Homophobia, Teenlock, breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:23:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of missing scenes from my 30 Day OTP/teenlock fic, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/865115/chapters/1718458">At Seventeen</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John and Mary

**Author's Note:**

> This scene falls between Chapters 27 and 28.

John bites his lip as he worries over his mobile. He's started and restarted the text a hundred times, not quite sure how to phrase it.

 _Hey_ , he writes. _This is John Watson, from Molly's the other night. Are you free any time soon? I would like to ask you about the army._

It sounds stupid. He sounds stupid. He may as well send her a message that says: _Hello, I am not trying to hit on you, but I'd like to ask you a bunch of random, personal questions about your life. Thanks._

When, after another ten minutes of debate, he still has not thought of a better message, he sends the text. He regrets it as soon as the words disappear, on their way to Mary Morstan's mobile. Scrubbing at his face, John lets out a sigh and falls back onto his bed, head hitting the pillows.

He jumps a foot when his mobile buzzes twice, indicating that he's received a text.

_I'm actually free now, if you have time. Coffee?_

He hesitates, and then writes: _Sure_.

–

Mary lives close by, and they pick out a coffee shop between their houses. John's there twenty minutes later, fidgeting in his seat as he nurses a cup of tea and waits for the girl to arrive. She slides into the empty seat across from him, wearing a dark burgundy coat and a warm smile.

“Hey,” she says as she works at the buttons of her jacket, “I didn't think you were actually going to get in touch.”

If he's honest, John wasn't sure he was going to do that, either. He doesn't know what Molly said to Mary the night of the party, but it had seemed as though the girls had been discussing him as some sort of—well, potential romantic interest. He's too twisted up in Sherlock for that to ever happen, however, and the last thing John wants to do is lead someone on.

The last few days have not been fun. He barely speaks to Sherlock, and when they do it's more polite than friendly. He doesn't really have anyone to talk to, and that's why ended up texting Mary—he needs to talk to someone, _anyone_ about the army. Even if things with Sherlock were good, he knows the other boy couldn't be objective, and he has hardly seen his rugby mates in the past few months. He should have a conversation with his parents at some point, but John thinks they'll probably try to talk him out of it. 

Mary is the perfect candidate for the job: she's nice, she has some idea of what he's talking about, and she's practically a stranger to him so she has no emotional ties that will colour her judgment.

“'Course I texted,” John fiddles with the handle on his mug, “I said I would, didn't I?”

Mary glances around the shop and waves down a passing server, ordering a latte. “I figured you were just being polite. Reckoned I scared you off when I tried to flirt with you.” She smiles when she notices John blushing. She has a nice smile, he notices—the kind that seems to light her up from the inside out. He's so distracted he hardly notices as she goes on. “Oh, stop. I'm not an idiot. I can tell when someone isn't interested. Doesn't mean we can't be friends. Now, ask me your questions.”

John coughs nervously. “Right. So, um, which one of your parents is it? In the army, I mean.”

As the waitress drops off Mary's drink, the girl launches into her story. Her father has been in the army her entire life, and they've had to travel around a lot because of that. She's been to school in other countries but is glad to be graduating from somewhere in London. It's been difficult for her to establish meaningful friendships; she's surprised Molly even remembers her, outside of the fact that they are Facebook friends.

“Sorry,” Mary says, giving him a guilty smile and taking a sip of her coffee, “this doesn't have anything to do with what you'd be facing if you joined. I just—I'm not sure what to say.”

“It's fine. Seriously, this is helpful.”

She laughs. “How could this possibly be helpful?”

“I just—I'm not getting a lot of support, in regards to the army. And it's not like I'm even completely sold on it, or anything. It's just an idea. But Sherlock is so against it, and...” John trails off, realizing what he's just said. He looks down at the table and plays with the spoon he used to stir sugar into his tea. “Well, it's just good to hear someone talk about it.”

He desperately hopes that Mary will let it go, that she didn't notice his little slip. She's clever, though, and gives him another little smile. “ _Sherlock_ is against it, is he? Mol's mentioned him more than few times.”

“He's my best friend,” John tells her. It's not a lie, even if things are more complicated than that.

“I'm sure he is.” In the awkward silence that follows, she wrinkles her nose. “God, I'm being so nosy. Just—forget it, alright? I only got curious because Mol talks about him like he hung the moon. He's your best friend, yeah? And he isn't being supportive,” Mary brushes her hair off her shoulder and leans back in her seat. “That really sucks.”

And she's right. It _does_ really suck.

She doesn't have the whole story, of course. Mary doesn't understand the depth of John's feelings for Sherlock, and she doesn't know about the disastrous Christmas eve dinner that took place a few weeks ago. Despite all that, she's here, and she's listening to him whinge, and she's telling him that _it sucks_. It helps to hear that, to acknowledge it.

He breathes out, long and steady. “It really does. Like, I can't bring it up at all. We've hardly talked in weeks, and—well, he's my best mate. I wish we could have a rational conversation about it.”

“Too much emotion,” Mary says wisely. “Makes it hard to be unbiased.”

“Yeah. I haven't been able to talk to my parents about it yet, either. They kind of freaked when Sherlock announced it to them.” He winces. “He was really angry with me.”

She snorts. “He did that?” As John nods in confirmation, Mary heaves a sigh. “Look, John. Why do you want to join the army?”

John blinks. “What?”

“Why are you even thinking about it? I mean—sorry if I'm overstepping a boundary or whatever. I know we don't know each other well. But it just seems like you feel guilty for even considering it, so why are you?”

John takes a sip of his now-lukewarm tea. “I need money for uni.”

“Yeah, but,” Mary bites her lip, “I mean, there are plenty of ways to get money. So. Why the army?”

She says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world: 'there are plenty of ways to get money.' No one has said that to him, yet. Not Sherlock, not his parents. John feels his mouth go dry. Mary is right. She has a point. Despite what he's told himself, John has options.

John has _options_. He can find the money some other way, if he tries.

So why is he still thinking about the army?

He finishes off his tea and then pushes the cup and saucer away from himself. “I think I just want to. Join, I mean. I think I'm genuinely interested in it.”

That smile that Mary showcased earlier makes it's return. Her teeth are very white and straight. John wishes he cared more about how she looks. Through her grin, she says, “Now we're getting somewhere!”

They spend the next hour talking over what it means to be in the army, what her father has had to face, what she's felt as a family member. By the end of the conversation, their drinks are long gone and John knows he's going to go home and fill out the online application.

He gives her a hug outside the coffee shop. “Thank you. I just—I really needed that.”

Mary pats his shoulder. “You're a good guy, John. Sherlock will come around, I'm sure.”

“What?” He fights the blush crawling up his neck. “I don't know what you--”

“I think we should be friends. Proper friends, I mean. Text me again, sometime.”

With that, she gives him a cheeky wink and spins on her heel, heading off toward her house. John watches her go, barely managing to call out after her, “I will!”


	2. Sherlock and Siger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene falls between Chapters 22 and 23.

Sherlock flinches when his door opens and curls into himself on the bed. Light pours in through the open door, cutting across his torso in the darkness. His father flicks on his lamp. With a sigh, Sherlock says, “Must we?”

“Unfortunately,” Siger replies. He moves across the room and perches on the edge of Sherlock's bed. “I know you're angry with me.”

“Wow, and here I'd thought I'd hidden it so brilliantly.”

Siger lets out a slow, weary sigh. “You're not gay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flips over and studies his father. The man is drawn and pale as he leans his elbows onto his knees. He's wrinkling the lines of his immaculate suit and does not seem to care. “I'm not sure you're in a position to tell me what I am or am not.”

Snapping into action, Mr. Holmes hits the empty space of bed to his right. “You're not gay! This is just—it's a phase.” He licks his lips and takes a moment to calm himself. “It happens. Your hormones are going crazy and you don't know what you want, so you've latched onto that boy. It'll pass.”

“I don't _want_ it to pass,” Sherlock says into his pillow. “You manipulated him. You researched him until you found something that suited you and then you waited until we were at dinner to have it out.”

There's a hand in his hair. “Yes, but it was for your own good. His, too. You'll see. In a few years, you'll both be beyond this.”

“He's my only friend.”

The hand stills. “Well, I am sorry about that. I know you're sorely lacking in friends. He seems like a nice boy, but he's hardly extraordinary. You'll find another just like him, and maybe next time, you'll be more careful.”

His father's words stir something inside of Sherlock—the direct statement about his lack of friendships, the frank and incorrect dismissive statement about John being ordinary, replaceable. For the first time in years, Sherlock feels hot tears pushing against the backs of his eyelids. He can think of nothing that is going to make a difference; protesting is pointless. He presses his face further into his pillow to prevent his father from seeing him cry.

“If I could be normal,” he says, talking around the lump that's formed in his throat, “I would. But I can't, I just...”

“You can,” Mr. Holmes tells him, patting his back. He stands, shifting on his feet by the bed. “It's wrong, Sherlock, what you've done. It's against nature. If my colleagues knew...” Siger trails off, shook his head. “But it's not too late for you. Your little phase is over now. We'll fix it, you'll see.”

At that, his father takes a few stiff steps toward the door. Hovering in the door frame, he turns to give Sherlock a long look. Even with his head tucked away from the world, Sherlock can feel the man's eyes on him. 

Sherlock bites out, “There's nothing to fix. I'm not broken.”

—but it's too late. His father has already shut the door. Sherlock can hear the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard you guys wanted some angst.
> 
> lol jk no one said that I'm just mean
> 
> But seriously: I felt like this was really important to show. The problem with doing the story from John's POV is that we lost out on a lot of Sherlock's struggles. Hopefully, these scenes will allow me to correct some of that.
> 
> Have a scene you wish had been in At Seventeen? Let me know at [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/) and maybe I'll write it! I am definitely up for suggestions. :)


	3. Sherlock and Sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a missing scene so much as a prequel. Takes place in the summer before John and Sherlock become friends.

“You've done this before?”

“Yep.”

Seb is lying. It's obvious from the awkward slope of his shoulders, the way he avoids all eye contact, the subtle rise in the pitch of his voice. Most people would probably mistake it for basic nerves—understandable, considering the pair of them are sitting side-by-side on the couch in Sebastian's room, staring at two neat lines of cocaine on the coffee table before them. Sherlock, however, is not most people.

He nearly calls Seb out on it but clamps his mouth shut tight at the last second. Sebastian is the closest thing he's had to a real friend in years; he doesn't mind Sherlock's deductions and has never called him a psychopath. He texts Sherlock when he's bored and wants to hang out or skip class or smoke some spliff. It's all so _ordinary_. 

Sherlock gave up any aspirations of normalcy years ago, sometime after his peers stopped being impressed by his cleverness and started to hate him for it. But Seb? Seb is different.

At least, he's pretty sure Seb is different. He hasn't mocked Sherlock in months, and sometimes he says things that are halfway intelligent. He's kind of an arse, but Sherlock supposes he can't afford to be picky.

“You should have seen Rodney last time he snorted this stuff,” Sebastian says, smiling to himself, “He came home high as a kite and reorganized the entire kitchen. Doubt Mum would have been quite as pleased if she knew what had prompted his cleaning spree, but you know.”

The boys huff out twin laughs. Sherlock leans forward and grabs one of the straws off the coffee table. Seb stole them from McDonalds on his way over. Next to him, Seb roots around in the pocket of his jeans until he finds his Swiss army knife. He hands it to Sherlock, who lifts one brow.

“It'll be easier with a shorter straw,” Seb explains.

Sherlock cuts the straw in half and hands part of it to his friend. “So I just—run the straw along the line, snorting quickly, aiming to have it absorbed by my nasal passges.”

Sebastian nods enthusiastically. It is painfully obvious that he has no idea. “That's right.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, placing his straw at the end of the line. He licks his lip and shoots a look at Seb, who is leaned forward in his seat, watching Sherlock anxiously. Sherlock swallows the nerves rising up his throat, puts his nose on the end of the straw, and inhales sharply.

He pulls back, rubbing furiously at his face.

“What's it like?” Sebastian asks, all pretense of experience stripped away. “Sherlock? Come on, you bastard, tell me!”

Sherlock frowns. “I don't really feel it yet. Maybe in a minute. Do your line.”

“I want to see what happens to you first.”

It hits Sherlock like a train. He pitches forward over his knees, distantly feeling Seb's hand on his back. There are a few moments of confusion and then stunning, glorious clarity.

When he looks back up at Seb, the other boy recoils. Being able to determine what someone means when they make a face has always been challenging for Sherlock—until this exact moment. Now, it suddenly makes perfect sense. He's read about the effects of cocaine (only once, but the words from the website he'd googled come flying back to him verbatim), and he is sure he's experiencing the blown out pupils, the manic energy and expressions. Sebastian's alarm is so, so obvious. Sherlock doesn't even need to try to put the pieces together: they puzzle comes to him, fully formed.

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever experienced.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock hears himself say, hardly aware that it is his own voice, “this is...Seb. Sebastian _fucking_ Wilkes, this is amazing.”

Sebastian can't dive to the waiting line of cocaine fast enough.

–

The needle in Seb's hand gleams under the overhead lamp in Sherlock's room. They both came here after a morning running around London with Seb's dull mates. The other boys only tolerate Sherlock because Seb makes them, and they begged off going over to Sherlock's house. A preferable outcome, really, as Sherlock dislikes them just as much as they do him. Across from him on the bed, Sebastian twirls the hypodermic jauntily, giving a mocking smile. “So you were fine with cocaine, but you're scared of heroin?”

“I'm not scared,” Sherlock scoffs, wrinkling his nose, “it just lacks the same appeal. Cocaine is...euphoric. Heroin makes people slow. When have I ever liked that?”

Seb shrugs. “Fair point. You aren't tempted at all?”

“Not especially,” Sherlock replies.

It's not really a lie. Sherlock is curious; it would be interesting, he thinks, to know and understand the effects of any and all drugs. Maybe even advantageous, if he ever decides to actually pursue the detective idea. Still, he isn't stupid. Cocaine was fun the one time he and Seb tried it, but heroin? It would make him slower, dumber. More like everybody else.

And he doesn't want to be like everybody else. Not anymore, not for years.

“I think it could be fun to try,” Sebastian's tone turns pleading, “C'mon, Sherlock. Just one time. Please?”

Biting his lip, Sherlock considers. If he says no, Seb might leave, might never speak to him again. Which would be fine, of course, because Sherlock doesn't _need_ friends. He doesn't need anyone. 

Still, Sebastian's not terrible company. Sherlock plucks the needle out of Sebastian's hand and studies it, intently observing the solution inside, going over the side effects in his mind. He wonders if he could get away with it, if anyone would notice. Maybe Mycroft, but he's barely been to the house all summer, so probably not.

“I got some stuff, a tourniquet or whatever,” Sebastian says, “if you want to try.”

Sherlock places the tip of the needle against the crook of his elbow. He doesn't push, doesn't ask for the tourniquet Seb mentioned in order to seek out a vein. He lets the hypodermic rest there as he considers his options.

Feet, walking rapidly down the hallway. Sherlock rips the needle away from his arm and tries to shove it behind his back, and Sebastian nearly vaults off his bed. Siger Holmes stands in the doorway, eyes wide, surprise rapidly giving way to fury.

“It's not--” Sherlock begins, but he knows it's pointless when he sees the way his father looks at Sebastian: the narrowed eyes, the furrowed brow, the ruddy cheeks, the snarl. It doesn't matter that Sherlock is fairly certain he would not have taken the drug.

His stomach turns, and he wonders if he'll ever see Sebastian Wilkes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two to three more missing scenes!
> 
> Sequel is about 90% planned. :)
> 
> Check for updates at [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com).


	4. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just after the last chapter of "At Seventeen."

Sherlock stares at his watch.  It is 1:24 in the afternoon.  As long as it was on time, John’s train left fourteen minutes ago, approximately one hour and twelve minutes after they kissed goodbye. 

John is gone.

Sitting on his bed, Sherlock grips his duvet, knuckles turning white as they clench around the fabric.  He takes one deep breath and lets it out slowly.  It doesn’t help.  He stands abruptly and rips his duvet away from his bed, hurling it across his floor.  It settles into a pile, which he then kicks.

His pristine sheets are neat, with hospital corners.  Letting out a growl, he tugs at them as well.  They catch; he yanks harder.  When they finally come free he bunches them up and throws them against the wall, watching as they bounce off and hit the floor.  The bed is bare and Sherlock feels no better, so he scrambles over it to his bookcase.

He plucks up the first book he sees ( _Elements of Organic Chemistry_ , Mycroft’s old text from uni, he stole it from his brother years ago) and pitches it across the room.  It lands with a satisfying thud.  The next book goes much the same direction, and the next, and the next.  At the end of the row is an old novel his father once gave him, despite the fact that he knows Sherlock dislikes leisure reading.  Holding onto the cover, Sherlock tears out a handful of pages and lets them flutter to the ground.  The book follows, and Sherlock lets out another guttural scream as he moves to the back of the shelf and pushes until the entire thing topples over.  Beneath him, the floor shakes.

He sweeps his lamp off the night stand and smiles when he hears it shatter, tears down his curtains, kicks over the chair at his desk.  He picks up a pen and uses all of his strength to stab it into the wall.  There are footsteps in the hall; when someone begins to turn the doorknob, he tosses his bin at the door.

Throwing open his closet door, he rips his old school uniform to shreds and kicks the wall so hard he thinks he's broken his toe.

Sherlock limps over to his violin.  He lifts it above his head, determined to bring it down upon his knee, when Mycroft bursts into his room.  They stare at each other, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock realizes he is panting.

“Sherlock…” his brother says, eyes wide in awe of the mess.  “What have you done?”

His room looks as though a bomb went off; clothes and debris litter the floor.  He swallows and stares at the violin in his hands before putting it down.  “I thought it would make me feel better.” 

Mycroft blinks.  He is an anomaly hovering in the doorway: a perfectly put together man standing in the middle of Sherlock’s chaos.  He clears his throat delicately.  “Did it?”

Sherlock sighs.  Suddenly, his eyes are hot and his throat tight.  “No.”

His brother picks his way across the mess until there are arms around Sherlock, wrapping him in a hug. It’s uncomfortable, especially as Sherlock keeps his own arms glued to his sides; he makes it a point to embrace as few people as possible.  Still, there is something comforting in the way Mycroft just barely touches the back of his head and tells him that they’ll fix everything before their parents return next week.

“He left me,” Sherlock mumbles into his brother’s lapel.  “He wanted to go.  He’s glad.”

Mycroft says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this wasn't a Missing Scene I had planned, but it came to me and I couldn't let it go, so here it is.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! If you'd like to hear more about my writing/the sequel, check out [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/). :)


	5. John and his parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place between chapters 27 and 28, after John has spoken with Mary.

“I don’t understand.  I didn’t do anything wrong!  Why am I getting sent to my room?”  Harry whines as Mrs. Watson ushers her from the kitchen and into the hallway.

“You’re not being punished.  We just need to talk to John alone for a few minutes.”

Harry’s reply is muffled as the pair reaches her door, and John stops straining to hear the conversation.  He sighs heavily, leaning into the back of his chair.  The kitchen table before him is still littered with the remnants of dinner, the leftover lasagna growing cooler and cooler in its dish. He starts to collect the plates, but his father grabs his wrist.

“Don’t worry about that right now.”

With a sigh, John slumps back down.  “Do we have to do this?”

Mr. Watson nods.  “Yep.”

“Next time we need her out of the room,” his mother says as she wanders back into the room and gives her husband a pointed glare, “you’re taking care of it.  She’s your daughter.”

“She’s _our_ daughter.”

“She’s yours when she acts like _that_.”

Mrs. Watson sits down at the table next to her husband, across from John.  She pushes away her abandoned plate, clearing the space in front of herself, and leans in on her elbows.  His father drapes an arm across the back of her chair.

“Now, Johnny,” she starts, gaze steady and direct, “I think you know what we want to talk about.”

John shifts his eyes to the floor.  “The army?”

“Right.  We just…we want to understand, we really do, but this seems kind of sudden to us.  You’ve only ever talked about being a doctor, and I think I can speak for both your father and myself when I say that this feels like it came from nowhere.”

“We’re not opposed to the idea,” his father quickly cuts in, “and we’ll support whatever decision you make.  We just don’t want you to make it rashly.”

Silence. John scratches at his thigh and then smooths out the material of his jeans, doing anything not to look directly at his parents.  He feels guilty, and he’s not sure why.

His mother’s nails tap against the table top.  “Can you just…explain it to us?  Your thought process?”

“I talked to the counselor at school,” John huffs out the word around a deep exhale, “and he told me that the army could help pay for my schooling.  It just sounded—well, interesting, I guess.  Helping people.  Doing something.  Being involved.”

“How come you didn’t mention it to us?” Mr. Watson asks.

John looks up, rolls his eyes.  “Mostly, I wanted to avoid this conversation.” His parents continue to stare at him. “I don't know, okay? The counselor and I only ever talked about it a few times, and I didn't want to bring it up unless I was sure that was what I wanted to do. But now I'm thinking that I might submit my application.”

Mrs. Watson stares at the table. Her voice is high and thin as she says, “This is something you need to be sure about. You'll be signing away four years of your life, John. What about uni? What about Sherlock?”

“I'm pretty sure they're not going to close all of higher education in the next four years. Uni will still be there. And what about Sherlock? We're just friends now.”

His parents snort in unison and then toss each other amused looks, pointedly ignoring the glare John sends their direction.

“I can still go to university,” John repeats, hoping to refocus their attention. “Just...later.”

“If it's money, we will find a way. I don't want you doing this because you think you're protecting us from financial ruin, or whatever idea you've cooked up in your head.” His father rubs at his brow. “Uni is not _that_ expensive. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”

The weight of his parents' eyes rests on his shoulders, and John nearly buckles under it. He doesn't want to disappoint them, or hurt them, or worry them. That being said, he also knows that he does not want to disappoint himself.

“It's not the money. Or, well, not totally. It certainly doesn't hurt. But, really, I think that I...” he frowns at his lap, hands twisting and untwisting, “I let Harry get her way constantly, and I always go with Sherlock's plans, and I lost out on Captain for the rugby team to Greg even though I'm a better player because he's more assertive during practice. And it's ridiculous, you know? Because I'm not...”

“Not what?” His father prompts.

John shrugs helplessly. “Incapable. I'm too passive. I let people do as they please because it's easier, but I'm tired of easy. I _know_ I can do this. It's going to be hard and challenging, but I want to try.”

Mrs. Watson bites her lip. “You want to try despite all that?”

“No,” John says, “I want to try _because_ of it.”

He watches his mother turn to his father and press her face into his shoulder. Mr. Watson's arm drops around her shoulder, hugging her close. The pair of them sit, connected and quiet, before his mother looks over at him. Her eyes are wet but her smile is wide. “You are very brave, John. You're going to do so much.”

“Mum...” John wrinkles his nose and fights the blush rising up his cheeks.

“We're very proud of you,” his father adds.

A lump forms in John's throat and he swallows, trying to clear it. It doesn't work. The emotion in the air is growing denser and denser, and he's certain if he sits in the room one more minute, he is going to choke. “May I be excused?”

Mr. Watson nods. “Sure. Tell the little monster she can come out and play.”

As he rounds the table, John nods. He hesitates, then leans over and gives his mother a peck on the cheek and touches his father's shoulder. 

In the doorway, he throws a grin over his shoulder. “I'm telling her you called her a monster.”

His father wags a finger at him. “Don't think I still can't ground you, young man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite what I hoped it would be, but I was sick of staring at this file all day every day, so here you are!
> 
> For more information on these scenes and the sequel, visit [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/).


	6. Sherlock and Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Chapter 26, "Getting Married."

Sherlock slides into the back of the black car and rolls his eyes when he sees his brother sitting there, typing out a message on his mobile. The only thing that could make this morning more terrible than it has already been is having to deal with Mycroft's superior attitude.

“Working on Christmas, Mycroft?” He asks, buckling his seatbelt.

Mycroft does not even look up from the screen. “I've nearly secured a promotion. Need to focus and keep ahead of the competition.”

“I'm sure your brown-nosing won't go unnoticed.”

With a deep sigh, Mycroft drops his phone into his lap. He fixes a stare at Sherlock, who determinedly ignores him. London rushes by them, strangely empty. The holiday has kept people inside, forcing them to spend time with their loved ones. Holidays are hateful that way, Sherlock thinks, imagining his father's glare across the dinner table the night before.

The mental image gives way to the memory of the cool air on his skin as he'd got out of the cab two blocks away from John's house, just to be safe. The feel of John's mouth on his one last time, his face when he— 

Sherlock clears his throat and looks out the window.

“That was very foolish, you know,” Mycroft tells him.

Sherlock _does_ know that, so he does not reply. 

His brother shifts in his seat and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Father is furious.”

Another obvious statement. Why does Mycroft insist on speaking if he's only going to be boring? “I imagine so.”

“Don't do this. It's immature and annoying, and I won't tolerate it.”

Rolling his eyes again, Sherlock injects as much disdain into his voice as possible. “Do _what_?”

A beep sounds, filling in the empty spaces between the two of them. Mycroft glances down at his mobile, but he ignores whatever message he got. “Don't act as if it doesn't matter and as if you never cared all along simply because you screwed it up. You make these impulsive and reckless decisions...” His eyes go distant. “You sabotaged yourself, I hope you realize.”

“Oh, do spare me the lecture,” Sherlock mutters.

With a snarl, Mycroft throws his mobile across the car. It hits the back of the seat next to Sherlock and bounces to the floor. “For God's sake, stop being so blasé!”

Sherlock shrinks back, eyes wide and unblinking. He sorts through his memories of Mycroft in his mind palace, trying to recall a time when his older brother has lost his temper like that before. His search is fruitless.

Clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair, Mycroft once again becomes the picture of control. He adds, “I don't pretend to understand what was going through your head. If you hadn't been so rash...” he trails off, shifting to look out the window, “I would have helped you. We could have figured it out.”

Sherlock's heart bucks in his chest and he grimaces, eyes shut tight against his brother. “It wouldn't have mattered. He'd never accept John.”

“Mummy--”

“Took her pills with wine before dinner. She wouldn't have been any help at all once she sobered up.”

“She probably wouldn't have,” Mycroft agrees with a shake of his head. “And you're right. Father would never be alright with you and John. But think of the long term, Sherlock! If you had stayed, if you had allowed me to help, talk to Father on your behalf, do _something_ , then the next one would have been easier.”

“'Next one?'”

“Boyfriend. We would have lost this particular battle, of course, but I think we could have won the war!” His head thumps against the back of the seat. “Until you went swanning off in middle of the night, that is.”

Sherlock grips the leather seat by his thighs, clutching the material so tightly his knuckles turn white. “John isn't collateral damage. John is...” The words eek out from between clenched teeth. He feels Mycroft's eyes on him and glares at the floor of the car. “There is no 'next one.' There is _John_.”

Silence hangs between the two brothers in the car, thick and claustrophobic.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, after a long moment. His voice is soft. Sherlock hates it, hates him. He has no right to sound so quiet and sad, to sound as if he pities Sherlock. He keeps talking, and Sherlock only hates him more. “Caring isn't an advantage, you know.”

Sherlock slouches into his seat. “Well, don't worry. I don't plan to do it again.”

Mycroft reaches out and seems neither surprised nor offended when Sherlock twists away. He frowns and lets out a sigh as his hand drops to his lap. “We never do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the missing scenes! Sorry for the delay on this one--for being so short, it certainly gave me a lot of trouble. Plus, I had a very busy few weeks! But things are back to normal now, so I should be able to devote more time working to...(drumroll)...the sequel!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the missing scenes. If there's something you wish I'd have written, let me know. I might take you up on that. :)
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for looking over these chapters and listening to me ramble about the sequel and asking all the right questions and for generally being great.
> 
> Come say hello on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com) and keep an eye out for the sequel!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO, FRIENDS!
> 
> It's good to be back. As promised, I have a series of missing scenes from this verse that I will be posting before I start work on the sequel! These are moments that I wanted to include in the original fic, but that didn't work due to either a.) the prompt for that day or b.) POV changes.
> 
> A big thank you to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe), who has graciously agreed to help me with the missing scenes and the sequel! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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